Desperate for adult conversation, I volunteer as a room mom. I’m teamed up with Victoria, whose twins are Drew and Cameron. Victoria’s high maintenance, but she’s fine with the fact that Deshy has two mommies.
Victoria asks if the twins can come over for a playdate while she shops for the day. Deshy has been to their house—now it’s our turn. He’s not thrilled when I tell him . . .
Marco was always pretty smart for a drummer. He knew the record shop wouldn’t be open at three a.m., so he headed straight for the back door . . .
I spill coffee on the bed. The white quilt is stained.
How can I fix this? I tiptoe up the stairs to their kitchen, soak a wad of paper towels in the sink. I go back down the stairs, rub the paper towels into the stain. I scrub and scrub. The sun is rising; the stain is not. I lay back down on the bed. Hopelessness . . .
In the final tally I’m not sure who said it more, my daughter or me.
That year from two to three was full of refusals—there was the bedtime no and the cleaning up no; no to taking a bath and no to getting out of the bath; no to getting dressed or undressed. It was the toddler version of Newton’s third law: every action demanded an equal and opposite uh-uh . . .
“Can you say something nice about this place?”
My left wrist is throbbing like a siren so I barely register Jackie’s request. She’s the tour’s PR lackey, in charge of pushing me through the subterranean bowels of the Home Depot Center to my press conference . . .
This is me at fifteen, splayed out on Carly’s giant trampoline—stargazing, helpless, hopeful, smiling through a mouthful of stolen popcorn . . .
“Mama, Miss Tina is fat,” Rose announced from the backseat of my Nissan Sentra. Panic immediately set in . . .
I’m standing here beneath the palms surrounded by six police officers, all of them with their guns drawn, all of them pointing at me . . .